green teeth
under banana light
soda chemicals fizzle
out tubes in the wall
overhead dims
and brightens
shoeprint mud
on the floor
a brown apron
discarded
with others
(originally published in Literary Yard, Summer 2018)
Month: February 2021
Profile Pictures
It was easy
in college
for every profile pic
to be a drunk photo
smiling. Beer cans
in hands in a bar,
at the beach,
in a house, in
a car. We were
all young and
happy
thinking us
adults. Legally,
sure, yes.
We were.
But the me
in those photos
wasn’t thinking
about bills
the endless
stack of debt
I still cannot
afford.
Of which
I was
in those moments
accumulating.
Like snow clouds
beckoning
over Lake Erie
I hoped would
cancel class
so I could drink.
(originally published in Wilderness House Literary Review, Fall 2018)
Boredom
I inspect my bedroom’s walls for new specks
after changing dead bulbs in the low sky
of this house I’ve lived in for three years.
Airplanes have always sounded the same,
haven’t they? I’ve slept close to airports
and railroads my entire life, hear engines
coming on like symptoms no need to pay attention
to, low hum in your throat mourning out
of the night. By now you’ve watched friends soar
into the horizon to break the illusion
of life’s infinite line, seen the cord dangling
down from the clouds and sometimes
you reach for it
(originally published in Umbrella Factory, Fall 2018)
Become Whole with Yourself
A cave, a raven horse-
hoofed sunlit human. Your journey
to know you forward: yourself
tar. Orange toward opening.
Darkness, fire, form,
wing.
(originally published in Indiana Voice Journal, Winter 2018)
All We Talk About Are Bugs
Like we have nothing else to talk about.
Maybe we don’t. Tick-ridden, each word.
I have a fever. And cockroaches. So
we’re paranoid is what– that we’ll
probe too deep and dislike each other?
Or the opposite. It’s not a date. Right?
All we talk about– our bugs. My home
is filled with bedbugs. You just can’t
see them. Come over, we’ll take
a flashlight to the nooks of
closets. Strain our eyes on top
of chairs to search corners of
ceilings. Remove the bedding,
search around the pillows.
You’d think the topics would
be numerous and multiply.
Ah! A smile, a lull in conversation,
an open window. I open
wide. You pull a flyswatter
from your pocket.
(originally published in Thirteen Myna Birds, Summer 2018)
Stray
The way the cat looked at me
after his treat–
the difference was ours has a home.
And God I am so ashamed.
They are the same
but I was on our unfamiliar
porch
swinging
a bag of sustenance
like unlimited pleasure
you needed
for survival
(originally published in The Magnolia Review, Summer 2018)
Advil
I take one pill two
to mask what’s wrong in me
these hurtful words mouthing
sorry in the dark I shouldn’t rub
your back when my partner’s
on the coast on a beach here
it snows yes I know
this is no excuse tasteless tablet
smudged slate white mountain
I am the one percent meaning
I’m money poor but lucky to
live in the age of modern medicine
a dentist takes a drill
to my root and neither of us
feel anything a surgeon cuts
into Dad’s heart anesthetics
these aches we carry daily
the privilege why we don’t
say sorry when we mean it
at the drug store I buy a knife
(originally published in The Wayward Sword, Summer 2018)
Let Go
Let go
of Los Angeles.
Of the shore
or the dream
of water. Night
sky the black
granules. Negative
film reel. Prints
in sand. Bare
feet: where to
wander
next?